My sons hadn’t visited me in five years—until they found out I was planning to leave my flat to my niece. Then suddenly, they came running.
I have two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law… yet I live like an orphan. For years, I believed I’d raised sons who would one day be my support. But life turned out differently. Since my husband passed away five years ago, not one of them has stepped foot in my home. Not a single call, not a letter, not a visit. Then I mentioned out loud that I intended to leave my flat to my niece—and like clockwork, they appeared.
I raised two boys and thought myself blessed—after all, don’t sons stay close to their mothers? I believed I’d never be alone in my old age. My husband and I did our best—we loved them, gave them an education, helped them find their feet. While their father was alive, they visited occasionally. But after we buried him, it was as if I ceased to exist.
They live in the same city, just a forty-minute bus ride away. Both are married, settled with their own families. I have two grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never even met. After a fall, I struggle to walk, yet I can never reach them by phone—always too busy, promising to call back but never doing so. I’ve learned that their promises mean nothing.
When the neighbours upstairs flooded my flat, I called my eldest—no answer. I rang the youngest—he swore he’d come but never did. All I needed was someone to touch up the water stain on the ceiling. In the end, I had to hire a handyman. It wasn’t the money I begrudged—it was that my own sons couldn’t spare an hour for their mother.
When my old fridge broke, I called them both. I only asked them to come with me to the shop—I was afraid of being swindled. They said, “Mum, don’t worry, the salespeople will help.” So in the end, I went with my brother and his daughter—my niece.
Then the pandemic hit. Suddenly, they remembered they had a mother. They called once a month, offering advice—”Don’t go out,” “Order groceries online,” “Be careful.” Except I didn’t know how. My niece showed me. She taught me to use an app for deliveries, brought me medicine, stayed with me when I fell ill. Every evening, she’d call: “Aunt Margaret, how are you today?” We grew closer than I’d ever been with my own children.
I started spending holidays with my brother and his family. My niece’s little girl calls me “Grandma.” And one day, it hit me—even if I have sons, it’s my niece who’s been my true family. She never asks for anything. She’s just there. She cares.
So I decided—since my sons forgot they had a mother, my flat would go to the one who stood by me. I rewrote my will in her favour. She didn’t know. I just wanted to do right by the person who had truly been there for me.
But someone must have let slip. That same day, my eldest called—voice tense, words sharp. “Is it true?” he demanded. “Are you really giving the flat to someone else?” When I confirmed it, he shouted, “Have you lost your mind? That’s family property!” I hung up.
That evening, my doorbell rang. Both sons stood there—with a cake, with my granddaughter, all smiles. Then the script began: “You can’t do this,” “She’ll kick you out,” “We’re your children,” “You’re giving it to an outsider.” I listened in silence. Then I said, “Thank you for your concern. But my decision is made.”
They left, slamming the door. Said if I signed the papers, I’d never see my grandchildren again. But my dears, I haven’t seen much of them anyway—just indifference. You only came after five years because you thought you were losing something. Not me. The flat.
I don’t regret it. If my niece turns out ungrateful—well, that’s life. But I don’t believe she will. She’s kind, honest, real. As for my sons? Now they’ll have to live with their conscience—if they still have one.
The lesson? Blood may tie you to people, but it’s love—not obligation—that makes a family.
